


Softly

by dexsnursey (nerdy_farm_girl)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, cooking breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9189524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdy_farm_girl/pseuds/dexsnursey
Summary: He could go for a run, probably, it’s early enough that Bitty won’t willingly wake up for another hour or so. But he had more shifts than usual last night, with Poots out with a lower body injury, and George would probably kill him if he slipped on an icy sidewalk and got hurt. Besides, there’s an optional skate this afternoon, he can get some exercise in there. He’s got more important things to do anyways – figure out how to make his boyfriend a delicious and healthy breakfast.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ace_etta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ace_etta/gifts).



> I hope you like this Claudette!!

Bittle seems softer here, in Providence, which is something that Jack wouldn’t have even thought possible six months ago. Bittle has always seemed soft, from the start when it was something bad, to well, the middle, when it became something Jack gravitated too. Now, Jack knows that Bitty isn’t really soft, except for the way his voice curls around words like _y’all_ and _sweetheart_ and _honey_. In fact, Bitty has a lot of hard edges, from the strength in his thighs to the steel in his voice when someone makes Chowder sad. Bitty is tough, tougher than Jack even, for all the emotional stress he hides behind wide smiles and warm pies.

Here in this apartment though, Jack sometimes forgets about Bitty’s iron spine. It’s easy too, with the way his hair and eyelashes glow golden in the early morning light, the slow easy way his chest rises and falls beneath the pale blue comforter Jack’s mom bought him. The little wrinkles that tend to appear right above his nose smooth away, and he looks even younger than usual. Not quite like the Bittle Jack remembers from freshman year though. He’s lost most of the baby fat, revealing cheek bones and a square jaw. Beautiful boy, Jack’s mother always says, her eyes a little misty every time Jack shows her photographs of the two of them. She could be talking about either of them, but Jack chooses to believe she’s looking a Bitty, beautiful inside and out.

Jack presses a kiss to Bitty’s temple, warmth spreading in his chest when Bitty smiles in his sleep, lips curling softly at the edges. He slips carefully out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and slipping his feet into the LL Bean slippers Snowy gave him for Christmas (in the Falconer’s secret santa). They’re warm and soft, and it kind of feels like Jack’s feet are floating an inch off the ground. Kind of like the way he feels whenever he’s around Bitty.

He could go for a run, probably, it’s early enough that Bitty won’t willingly wake up for another hour or so. But he had more shifts than usual last night, with Poots out with a lower body injury, and George would probably kill him if he slipped on an icy sidewalk and got hurt. Besides, there’s an optional skate this afternoon, he can get some exercise in there. He’s got more important things to do anyways – figure out how to make his boyfriend a delicious and healthy breakfast.

Breakfast is easy though, right? Jack used to make breakfast, back before Bittle cinnamon sugared his way into his life.

Toast. He’ll start with toast. Bitty made bread from scratch the day before, and it’s wrapped up neatly on the kitchen counter. The kitchen still kind of smells like it, that warm, fresh scent that’s impossible to describe. Jack unwraps the bread and breathes in deep, before pulling out a knife and slicing it carefully. Slowly. Once he has enough slices he pops them in the toaster, turning his attention to the fridge. They still have plenty of eggs, and some ham, and some peppers and onions already cut up for easy meal prep. He pulls everything out, feeling rather proud of himself for figuring something out all on his own. Sure, it’s not stuffed French toast or blueberry-lemon pancakes, but scrambled eggs and toast are pretty solid when it comes to breakfast food.

He turns the knob on the stove until the front right burner flickers to life and he places a frying pan on it, humming some song he doesn’t really know under his breath. Something about anacondas and buns. Bittle is undoubtedly responsible for it being in his head. The peppers and onions go in the pan with a little oil, sizzling loudly in the quiet of the kitchen. He starts cracking eggs as the veggies cook, carefully picking out the shells before adding a splash of milk and some salt and pepper. His dad used to make eggs like this, on the rare Sunday mornings when they were all together, usually in the dead of summer. It’s winter here in Providence, but the sun is shining brightly in his kitchen windows, and if Jack closes his eyes, he can almost feel the Montreal breeze ruffling his hair.

He whisks the eggs with quick efficiency, bobbing his head to the rhythmic scrape of the fork against the metal bowl. Once he’s satisfied, he stirs the veggies around in the pan, before throwing in the ham. He’s just pouring in the eggs when he smells it, the slightly acrid scent of toast going too far. Swearing under his breath, Jack leaps for the toaster, bouncing on his toes as he pulls out the burning hot bread. Luckily, the toast is still salvageable, so he drops margarine on them, finding something satisfactory in the way it melts. It’s kind of distracting, honestly, and the eggs are kind of more… omelet-y than scrambled when he remembers them.

“Sweetheart?” Jack whips around at the sound of that sleepy southern drawl, a little embarrassed by the way he feels caught red handed. There’s a hot flush spreading across his cheeks, but then Bitty smiles, all soft, and bunches his hands in the sleeves of what appears to be one of Jack’s Falconer long sleeves, and he forgets all about it.

“Just sit down,” He orders, pointing the spatula at one of the stools at the counter. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“What a treat,” Bitty hums, stubbornly ignoring his order and crossing the kitchen to plaster himself against Jack’s back. “Smells good honey.”

Jack grins down at the eggs before quickly turning the stove off. Bitty stays pressed against his back as he makes up two plates, carefully spreading raspberry jam on the toast as the final touch. He carries the plates over to the counter and peels Bitty off his back, pushing him down into one of the stools.

“Coffee or juice?” Jack asks, pulling down one mug for his own coffee.

“Both please, hun?” Bitty requests sleepily. Jack obliges, pulling down another mug and a small cup from the cupboard. He makes Bitty’s coffee, or well, his coffee flavored sugar milk, before pouring his own, black. Then he takes some OJ out of the fridge and shakes it, pouring some into the cup for Bitty.

“Here you go,” he says, pushing the drinks across the counter before walking around to slide into the stool beside Bitty.

“I love you,” Bitty murmurs, hooking his calf around Jack’s. He’s got nice legs, strong and thick. Jack’ll never forget that one time he walked in on Bitty doing squats and his world shifted on its axis.

Jack smiles and waits until Bitty puts down his coffee, thumbing at Bitty’s chin until he turns his head. Kissing him is like riding a bike, like stepping out onto fresh ice. It’s easy, like something Jack was born to do. When Bitty smiles against his mouth he can’t help but do the same, until they’re just pressing their dopey grins together.

“I love you too.”

They both return to their breakfasts, the low hum of cars passing on the street, the gentle clank of forks against plates and mugs against the counter the only sounds. Everything feels soft and warm, so, so different from the way the world appeared to Jack for a large portion of his life. He glances at Bitty out of the corner of his eye, at the shadows his eyelashes cast on his cheeks, the slope of his little nose and the way the faint stubble on his chin reflects white-gold in the sunlight. In a little while he’ll go to the rink, where everything is loud and cold and all hard edges. But for now, he’s content to bask in the soft sunlight and the warmth of Bittle.

**Author's Note:**

> i cry about fictional and real hockey players on tumbr, if you'd like to [hang out](http://dexsnursey.tumblr.com)


End file.
